Snuggleupagus
by StinkoGingko
Summary: Tony has bronchitis.  The rest of the team is just irritated.
1. Chapter 1 Sniffleupagus

A/N: I do not own the NCIS characters, Sesame Street, The Sound of Music, or Crank. These events take place not long after the episode "Freedom." My apologies to anyone who was hoping for anything serious. This is just a bit of nonsense I had to get out of my system before I could go do some heavier lifting. And, yes, I've just had bronchitis.

1 Sniffleupagus

A navy captain, head of a sensitive intelligence unit, had been murdered. The murder seemed to be a professional contract hit, and, given the nature of the victim's position, it was a high-priority, high-profile case. Vance was doing a lot of looming over the squadroom. The crime scene itself yielded no meaningful evidence: a deserted suburban road, unlit, with no cameras of any type in sight, no fingerprints, no weapon. Their best lead was a flashdrive found in Captain Harris's desk, but it was encrypted, and attempts to untangle the material had already consumed three days, with no clear end in sight.

The technical nature of the work meant that the unraveling fell mostly to McGee and Abby. The inactivity was taking a heavy toll on Tony, who was already miserable with a cold that wouldn't go away. "It's the wife, damn it," he said, and followed this statement up with a sneeze and a good fit of coughing for extra punctuation.

"You may be right, but we still need evidence," McGee said. "And could you please cover your mouth? I really don't want that cold."

"I did cover my mouth. It's not my fault that these government-issue tissues are completely inadequate. And you'd have gotten it by now if you were getting it."

"Next time please mark the coffee cups."

"We should be tailing the wife, at least," Tony said. He sneezed.

"You are Sniffleupagus!" Ziva said, grinning.

"What?" Tony asked.

"Um, Ziva, I think you mean Snuffleupagus," McGee said helpfully.

"I know it's Snuffleupagus," Ziva said. "It was a joke."

"Not a good one, if even I don't get the reference," Tony said, and blew his nose again.

"It's Sesame Street. Before your time, Tony," McGee said sweetly. "I didn't know you got Sesame Street in Israel."

"Oh, we did. I loved Big Bird."

Tony Googled Sesame Street. "It was not before my time," he said. "But it didn't matter. My mother didn't think TV could be educational. She wouldn't have let me watch it anyway."

"And yet she let you read comic books and order sea monkeys," McGee said.

"She didn't know about the comic books. Or about the sea monkeys, given that she drank them," Tony said.

"Anyway, nice try, Ziva."

"Do not patronize me, McGee. It was a very good joke. You are just not a good audience."

Gibbs came around the corner. "DiNozzo, are you actually Googling Sesame Street in the middle of an investigation?"

"It was just in the interest of helping Agent David acclimate to American customs."

"Uh huh. Find something to do."

"I'm watching McGee unencrypt as hard as I can, boss." He coughed again, a particularly wet, rumbly cough perhaps intended as a sign of sincerity.

"You're honking more than a pack of Canadian geese," Gibbs said. "And you know how I feel about them."

"Yeah, that green crap is pretty slippery. It's just a cold, boss."

"You've been honking for two weeks. If we ever find an actual crime scene to investigate, you'll contaminate it. Go see Ducky. Now."

"I've been taking this—"

"I'm going to the head," Gibbs said. "If you're still here when I come back, I'll blow my own nose on that Pravda shirt you have in the drawer."

"It's Prada," Tony said. "I'm on it, boss."

Ziva smiled. "Snuffleupagus has an enormous nose and a tremendous amount of fur. It was a much better joke than you realize."

Tony sighed. "By definition, it's not a good joke if you're still trying to explain it five minutes later. Stick to your malapropisms. At least we understand those. Well, we understand what you don't understand."

Ducky's stethoscope was always cold, as he was so used to patients that didn't need stethoscopes to begin with that he never remembered to warm it. On the other hand, he was readily available, no waiting if you didn't mind the half-dismembered corpse on the next table, and generally sympathetic. And the upside of congestion was that Autopsy almost didn't smell. "It's bronchitis," Ducky said.

"That's no big deal, right?"

"Depends. It can be very difficult to shake. But anything bronchial is a big deal for you, Tony. You need to go home and rest for a few days."

"A few days?"

"Let's say three."

Tony groaned. "I don't need three days at home."

"I thought you'd be happy. Isn't it final four time?"

"The tournament doesn't even start until next week. Vance will think I'm the biggest wuss in the world. No one stays home for three days with bronchitis."

"If he asks," Ducky said, "I could shade it a bit. Perhaps even call it walking pneumonia. But why worry about Vance?"

"I'm the red-headed stepchild," Tony muttered. "This case is a big fat deal and it's all computer stuff. Not my wheelhouse." He coughed. "It's the wife, damn it."

"It's not always the wife. Vance is very up-to-date, and I'm sure he knows that the trend in management now is to send sick people home, as they usually don't get much done—"

"Please don't mention that."

"—and are very good at passing on what they have to others. Yes, I'll stick to that point if I'm asked. But it doesn't matter. It's home for you, Tony. Rest and soup. Some ibuprofen will cut down on the inflammation. And a vaporizer."

"Five-year-olds have vaporizers."

"Then put a pot of water near your heating vent. No one will ever know. And your three-day bronchitis won't become three weeks of pneumonia."

"There's no need to tell Gibbs about the three days, is there?"

"He'll know anyway." Ducky frowns. "If he were more technically gifted I'd think he'd bugged the whole building. And soup, Tony, not pizza."

"Soup," Tony moaned. "Eighty-year-olds have soup. Because they don't have any teeth." But he gave up and went home. He knew Gibbs really might blow his nose on that shirt.


	2. Chapter 2 Soupleupagus

2 Soupleupagus

You can take the senior field agent out of the squadroom, but you can't take the squadroom out of the senior field agent, particularly when he still has a theory and a cellphone and isn't shy about brandishing either of them. Tony stayed home the next day as ordered, but in between coughing spells, and sometimes during, he pestered McGee with phone calls. "No, we haven't made any progress since the last time you called," McGee said. "An hour ago. Or was it just forty minutes?"

"It's the wife," Tony hacked.

"The wife is not capable of producing a document at this level of encryption."

"But that subordinate of her husband's is. Lieutenant Commander Robbins."

"He has an alibi. And he's _bald_, Tony."

"Some women like bald men. How else do you explain Jason Statham?"

"Who?"

"You really need to see Crank. It's genius. Action movie meets Ealing Studio." He coughed. Even over a cellphone, it sounded contagious.

"No, I really need to get back to work."

"Did I mention that they have that insurance policy that pays off the mortgage?"

"Yes, several times, and it's just a three-bedroom house in Ballston."

"Even in this housing market that place is still worth 650. With the life insurance you're looking at 900K free and clear. And did I mention that some women dig bald men? Nothing personal, McRedhead."

"I'm hanging up now, Tony."

Abby came into the squadroom not long after this. She was twisting her hands, obviously distressed. "He's calling you, too, isn't he?" McGee said.

"He just wants to help."

"He's just bored. Boss, isn't there anything you can do?"

"Don't answer the phone," Gibbs said.

"Gibbs!" Abby protested. "That would be mean. And you can't be mean to someone who's sick. A positive outlook is so important to recovery."

"Abby, it's just bronchitis."

"For Tony it's not just bronchitis. It could get very serious very quickly. He almost died of pneumonia before, Tim."

McGee sighed. Abby was never quite rational on the subject of Tony, and lately she had been fretting over a sense that all was not well in Tonyland. When all was not well in Tonyland, all was not well in Abbyland, and Abby's not-well-ness made McGee feel not so good either. "He just needs a movie to distract him. Maybe he should watch Crank again."

"Crank is much too exciting, he needs something more restful. Although Crank is genius."

"Do you think that Crank guy is sexy? I mean, he's _bald_, isn't he?"

"Oh my God, yes. Dead sexy. And hilarious."

Gibbs said, "None of this is hilarious. It's not getting this case solved, either."

"Boss, he's called six times this morning. Just to remind me that the wife is a suspect."

"Oh, it's the wife," Abby said.

"Abby, Mrs. Harris doesn't begin to have the skills to create this kind of encryption."

"That lieutenant commander does."

"You may feel you have to answer Tony's calls. You don't have to buy his theories. He always thinks it's the wife."

"The wife is always a good place to start," Gibbs said.

"The sophistication of the encryption suggests it's work related. I know Director Vance thinks there's major national security implications," McGee said.

"Well, McGee, why don't you and Abby just finish unencrypting those files and we'll know for certain who's right."

An idea had formed in Ziva's head as this conversation went on. She had been as underemployed on this investigation as Tony. Now she understood how she could contribute. She stood up. "I will take one with the team," she said.

"One with the team? Like, take a photograph of us?" Abby asked. "But Tony's not here."

"I think she meant take one for the team," McGee said.

"You'll answer our phones?" Abby asked. "But would you be mean?"

"I will not answer your phones. I will take Tony some soup."

"Soup isn't going to divert Tony for very long," McGee warned.

"No breaking of bones," Gibbs said. "Or gagging. At least while he's still mouth-breathing."

"While he is eating the soup, I will steal his phone," Ziva said.

McGee smiled. "That's not actually a bad idea, Ziva."

"Take him some hot and sour soup. He loves that. But don't get it at Wong's, they load it with MSG. Get it from Moon's instead," Abby suggested.

"I will take him chicken soup. It has been medically proven to help with a cold."

"That's an old wives tale," Abby said.

"You believe that being mean can make a man sicker, but soup can't make him better?"

"Yes," Abby said, as if this were painfully obvious. Tony was not the only subject on which Abby was not quite rational.

"Enough," Gibbs said. "Ziva, make the soup run. Abby, give me your phone."

"No."

"If you don't know it's ringing, it's not mean if you don't answer."

"I'd know that leaving it would lead to meanness, which is just as bad as being mean."

Gibbs sighed. "Just to back to the lab, Abs."

Vance was looming over the squadroom. It occurred to Abby that somehow this was all Vance's fault. She gave him her hardest look as she stomped back to her lab. Vance went back to his office, but that was probably just a coincidence.


	3. Chapter 3 Snoopleupagus

3 Snoopleupagus

Ziva solved the problem of Tony not buzzing her in by picking the lock on his building's outer door. Once at his door, she was faced with a different problem: if she picked the lock, Tony might shoot her. She herself would shoot anyone who broke in without waiting to see if the breaker-in was bearing soup. She settled for knocking.

He opened the door only a crack. "What on earth are you doing here? And who let you in?"

"I let myself in. I have soup for you."

"Why would you bring me soup?"

"Because it's good for you. And your calls are driving McGee crazy."

"I can still call McGee while I'm eating soup." He coughed.

Best not to mention the steal-the-phone angle. "The soup will speed your recovery, and then you can bother McGee in person."

"Fine. Hand it to me."

"It needs to be heated up properly."

"I have a microwave."

"On the stove. You do have a stove, don't you?"

"Yes, and I've actually used it." He sneezed.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Tony, just open the door. I have known you for nearly six years. It's about time you invited me in. It cannot be that bad. Don't you have a cleaning lady?"

"Let me smell the soup."

She opened the lid a bit. Even cold, it smelled delicious. He opened the door.

And it wasn't that bad. There were tissues strewn about and the odd pizza box, but otherwise—well, otherwise it was neat enough. It wasn't the swamp of dirty socks and empty beer bottles she'd dreaded. The neat-enough-ness surprised her so much that it was a good moment or two before she noticed the elephant in the room. "You have a baby grand piano?"

"We'll make a detective of you yet. It's actually a parlor grand."

"It's beautiful," Ziva said.

"I was promised soup," Tony said.

"Oh, all right."

The kitchen was a narrow galley, with appliances that looked as if they had been installed in the 1940s. Tony produced an enamel saucepan that looked about as old as the stove. Ziva turned on a burner but nothing happened. Tony sighed, reached for a match, and lit the burner. "You can understand why I prefer the microwave."

"I have never seen such a stove."

"When I move I'm ripping it out and stealing it. These things go for six grand on eBay. Supposedly they get hotter than modern ones."

"Is that a double oven?"

"Yes, and they're both too small for a decent tray of lasagna. Where'd you get the soup?"

"From Dean and Deluca."

"You did not. They don't sell soup in big pyrex bowls."

"I made it."

His eyes narrowed. "You made me soup?"

"I did not make you soup." The burner certainly did get hot fast, for she felt her face flare up. She turned it down a few notches. "I always have some in the refrigerator in the winter time. It is an old family recipe. Cures everything."

He smiled. "You made me soup."

She smiled back. "And now you will have to wonder what I put in it."

"Probably saltpeter," he muttered.

"Of course there is salt. And pepper. It is soup, after all."

"Sometimes your unfamiliarity with English is a blessing." He coughed.

"I notice you don't have a dining table."

"I have a coffee table. It combines the name of a food product and the word table. Where would I put a dining table in here?"

"Do you at least have silverware?"

"Well, it's not silver, but it's not plastic either. And the bowls are up there." He coughed again.

"Go sit down, then. I'll bring you the soup. And do try to keep your germs to yourself."

"You're spending too much time with McAsthma," he said, but he went back into the living room.

She put the pyrex bowl in the refrigerator. There would be enough to keep him pizza-free for another day or two. When the soup was hot, and the air was thick with the good smells of chicken fat and matzo, she put it in a bowl, dug around for a spoon, realized a bit too late that Tony wasn't the sort to have potholders, and found a dishtowel nearly as ancient as the pan. "Here," she said. "Better than penicillin."

"I wish I could smell it better," he said. He frowned. "Seriously, what did you put in this? Because it can't be this simple."

She took the bowl and took a good long sip. "Mmm," she said.

"You've probably made yourself immune to all sorts of drugs," he said glumly.

"Oh, just eat the soup. The worst thing is you sleep until after McGee has gone home. You need the rest anyway."

"So you _did_ drug it."

She gave up then and took up the more important task of looking around. The building had probably once been a private home and been divided up many years ago. The floors were wood but not particularly well cared for, the walls had lovely molding but had last been painted white many years ago. For furniture he had a large modern sectional sofa, in the shade of brown that all single straight American men seemed to choose, and an enormous television. The only things on the walls were framed jerseys. "You are too old to have those on the walls."

"I'm proud of them," he said. "When I was a kid all I ever wanted to do was play for Ohio State. And I did. To me it's a big deal. You wouldn't understand."

It was one of the most revealing things he'd ever said to her. "Well," she said. "At least the colors aren't obnoxious."

"So glad you almost approve. You know, this is actually pretty good. I might have to start calling you Soupleupagus."

"That is my joke," she protested.

"Which I have now improved."

"Why do you keep the piano in front of the bookcases?"

"So it's hard to get to my movie collection. Where else would I put it?"

"I thought you said you don't play."

"I don't play it. At least matzo's close to pasta."

She ran a finger over the dark wood. The piano was not new, and here and there it showed the marks of being moved with something less than professional care. But it wasn't dusty. Of course he had a cleaning lady. "I think it basically is pasta. I could teach you. To play."

"I don't need lessons."

"But you said you couldn't play."

"I said I didn't play, not that I couldn't."

She touched a few keys lightly. It was in tune and it had a lovely sound, if a trifle chilly for her taste. "Why don't you play?"

"It's a grand piano. It would probably shake the house down. "

He was lying, she thought, and was pleased with herself for the deduction, and curious. This would be an interesting avenue for later pursuit. "How many movies do you have, Tony?"

"I don't know."

"Liar," she said.

"How are we counting? Just movies? TV series? Extra-disc special sets?"

"So you do know."

"Roughly. Two thousand, maybe. And ten thousand available on Netflix streaming. But that's not the same as having the DVD."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. The DVDs are just more tangible, I guess. And I like the special features."

"And yet you are not watching any of them. You are bugging McGee and Abby with phone calls."

"I hate being left out of a case," he said.

"I thought you had already solved it," she said.

"Trust me, it's the wife." He waggled the spoon for emphasis. "We're wasting all that time on the flashdrive when we should be tailing her. She'll slip up and meet with Robbins, especially if she thinks we're all focused on the national security angle."

"Why are you so sure it is not some national security thing?"

"It's a standard flashdrive you can buy at the drugstore. We found it in Harris's desk. It wasn't even in a locked drawer. If it's loaded with state secrets, shouldn't it be in the pocket of some spy right now?"

"Not a bad point," she admitted. "This case is boring for me too, you know."

"You speak fifteen languages and fight like a ninja. I'm just a policeman. Vance thinks I'm a back number."

"I don't understand that phrase."

"Obsolete. I can't do the tech things that Tim does, and that's what Vance cares about."

"If you are obsolete then Gibbs is too."

"Gibbs is Gibbs. Special case. And he's where he wants to be. I hate the way carrots get all mushy in soup."

"You just hate carrots. But they're good for your eyes, Mr. 20/10, so eat them. And you are not where you want to be?"

"I don't know. I'm not sure I want to be someone else's senior field agent forever."

The soup, she thought, didn't just clear sinuses, it loosened tongues. She was glad she'd only taken a sip. "Perhaps you are wrong about Vance. And they will always need people like you, Tony."

"I don't think Vance needs a laugh track."

"That is not what I meant."

"I know. And thanks for not being too snarky about it. Though I suspect this'll come back to bite me in the butt some day."

"Your butt is too hairy for biting."

"That didn't take long."

Ziva had finally squeezed herself behind the piano. "You have a sloop!"

"Stoop, Malapropagus. Celery is the most useless vegetable. Why does it get put into good things like stuffing?"

"It's filling. How do you get out to the stoop?"

"Through the window. Not for the inflexible. Or those overly concerned with personal dignity. But the view's not bad."

"Is that the Cathedral?"

"Yep. Good place to see fireworks on the fourth."

Another thing to pursue later. "How long have you lived here?"

"Since I took the job at NCIS."

"Why so far away?"

"We can't all afford to live in Georgetown, Miss I Fly First Class. When I moved down here I thought I'd take the subway to work. I had no idea that working for Gibbs would mean that the subway would be closed half the time before I left for the day."

"You could move. Find someplace closer. And bigger."

"I have parking here. And do you have any idea how hard it is to move a grand piano?" He licked his spoon. "That was pretty good. Not osso buco, but pretty good."

"Your face is looking pinchy again."

"Don't tell Abby you're eating osso buco."

"I ate it once."

"It's veal. You know how they raise veal? Abby will show you pictures. Graphic pictures. Repeatedly."

"Perhaps it was free range veal."

"Perhaps he slaughtered it himself. Very Hannibal Lector. Were there fava beans?"

"As I said, pinchy."

"It's the bronchitis." He yawned and leaned back. "Don't get any ideas, Snoopleupagus. I'm just resting my eyes."


	4. Chapter 4 Snuggleupagus

4 Snuggleupagus

Ziva took the empty bowl away. When she was done cleaning up, Tony was asleep, his head thrown back at an uncomfortable-looking angle, and snoring, but not too much. This was as a good a time as any to snatch the phone, but she didn't see it anywhere, and she realized that it was almost certainly in his back pocket. That's where he usually kept it when he was wearing jeans. He might also have guessed that she was really after the phone and slipped it somewhere so that retrieving it would involve a wrestling match. Which she would win, but not without some embarrassing moments.

Well, she thought, taking his phone was probably unwise, as he didn't seem to have a landline. As long as he was sleeping, he couldn't bother McGee. And while he was sleeping, she was free to engage in a little old-fashioned sleuthing. Wasn't that what Tony was always advocating?

Just off the kitchen, in what was, in less prosperous times, probably a bedroom, she found the holy of holies: his closet. All his beautiful suits, arranged from light to dark, his shirts arranged the same way. His shoes were a bit too utilitarian, though not as bad as McGee's, but there were a few pairs of handsome loafers and a pair of cordovan wingtips that wouldn't have looked out of place on Cary Grant. On the back of the door, a forest of ties. She didn't much approve of his taste in ties: too narrow, too conservative in color. Perhaps she would get him something bright for his birthday, yellow or orange. With more interesting patterns. The room smelled of cedar and Tony at his morning freshest. She was tempted to take pictures.

Back in the living room, Tony was still snoring away, still in his uncomfortable-looking position. She rooted around the piano a bit. In the bench there was a sheaf of very old, much-handled classical scores—very hard pieces, Liszt and Chopin. Many of them had faded notes in an unfamiliar, feminine-looking hand. Perhaps they had come with the piano, but why did he have the piano in the first place? She felt a stirring of dislike for any woman who could have such a fondness for Liszt.

Still feeling a bit annoyed, she turned her attention to the shelves. Along with all the movies, he had a smallish collection of CDs and a great many vinyl records, also old and looking as if they'd come from garage sales, Frank Sinatra and such. The old album covers gave her an idea of why Tony loved his narrow ties. She was tempted to put something on, but the stereo also seemed quite old and complicated. Strange how many of fastidious Tony's things seemed second-hand.

She went back to the movies. His taste, as she knew, was quite broad—so broad as to be basically, well, tasteless. There were a great many action movies alongside screwball comedies, westerns next to silent movies from Weimar Germany, 40s noir and 70s grittiness, French new wave next to unabashedly chickish flicks, and, yes, a few Bollywood films. There was even a copy of Cooch Cooch Hoda Hai, which he must have lifted from the evidence locker. She thought she would remind him of his promise that they'd watch it someday. Well, find someway to remind him that wouldn't tip him off to the extent of her snooping.

And then she found it: the three-disc 45th anniversary commemorative blu-ray edition of The Sound of Music, still in its cellophane wrapping. She read the contents with mounting excitement: Commentary with Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer! The real von Trapp Family! Virtual map of locations in Salzburg! _On-screen lyrics!_

Her longing to see this movie on Tony's supersized high-def television, with its blu-ray player and surround sound, was so strong she could taste it, a taste thicker than her good chicken soup. Before she knew what she was doing her nail had worked its way through the cellophane, and the blue box was open in her hands, impossibly tempting.

She looked again at the sleeping Tony, and got crafty. She went to the sofa. "Tony," she said softly. No response. More loudly, "Tony." No response. Directly in his ear, "My little hairy butt." The only response was a small snort before his snoring fell back into its original cadence. She wondered if she _had_ drugged the chicken soup and just forgotten.

Ninja, you can do this, she told herself. It would just take some careful planning. She figured out the remotes and slipped the precious disc into the blu-ray player. Then she heaved Tony's legs up onto the sofa, and angled the rest of him down more carefully. His snoring dropped several decibels, but he didn't wake. So close. She was about to put a pillow under his head when she had a better idea. She climbed up on the sofa and settled his head in her lap. He shifted about a bit, then snuggled himself down as if she were his favorite pillow.

She touched his cheek. "Tony, I'm turning on The Sound of Music. I know how much you hate that movie." He mumbled a bit before settling down again. Smiling, deeply pleased with herself, she turned on the movie. At first she kept the sound quite low, then gradually turned it up. Eventually she brought up the on-screen lyrics and sang along a bit. And then sang along a bit louder. He slept through it all. He was heavy but warm, and she figured this was about how a sable blanket felt. Or a Saint Bernard, with less slobber.

When she had seen the movie, and some parts of it twice, and cried a few happy tears, and watched the extras, it was getting dark. He was shifting around a bit more and she realized her legs were asleep. But she managed to slide out and slide the pillow in smoothly enough. On very stiff legs she got the disc out and back into its box and his copy of Crank back in the blu-ray player. Once The Sound of Music was back safely on the shelf, she let out the breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. A brilliant op, and she had pulled it off.

She was putting a bowl of water by the heat register when he finally woke. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, looking young and a little perplexed. "What time is it?"

"It's almost six."

"Did I sleep all that time? You did put something in the soup."

"I did not put anything in the soup. You needed the rest."

"What did you do? You've been snooping around, haven't you?"

"I watched Crank. It was in the player."

"I slept through Crank?"

"I turned the subtitles on."

"Crank with subtitles? That ruins it."

"Nothing could ruin Crank."

"Where are you going?"

"I have work to do." She put on her coat. "There is plenty of soup left. Medium heat for about 10 minutes should do it. Don't skip the vegetables. And don't forget, we have duty on Saturday. I expect you will be there."

"You think your soup is that awesome?"

"I think my soup is that awesome and your recuperative powers are awesome as well. I will see you on Saturday."

"You would never have found the phone."

She smiled. "I am glad to see that your powers of deduction are also still awesome."

"Thank you, Ziva," he said.

"You're welcome." And it never occurred to her to wonder what on earth he was doing with the 45th anniversary commemorative three-disc blu-ray set—with on-screen lyrics!—of a movie she knew he didn't like.


	5. Chapter 5 Smuggleupagus

5 Smuggleupagus

On Saturday, and almost on time, Tony showed up in the squadroom, in high spirits and almost honk-free. McGee was at his desk, looking very glum. Ziva was at her desk, looking like a cat that still had a few feathers clinging to her whiskers. "Did you unencrypt the flashdrive? Solve the case?" Tony asked.

"Yes," McGee said, still glum.

"So where's the joy, Decryptkeeper?"

"We solved the case but I didn't unencrypt the drive."

Gibbs came in on his unsqueaky shoes, carrying his first or fifth cup of the day. "Ziva trailed Mrs. Harris and photographed her meeting with Robbins. And if you do that alone again, you're fired, probationary agent David."

"Did Robbins crack?" Tony asked.

"Like an egg," Ziva said. "He looks like an egg, too." She shivered a little.

"He unencrypted the file for us," McGee said. "With the murder plans, including contact info on the hitman. Funny thing is, Harris found the flashdrive but never figured out what was on it."

"Not funny," Gibbs said. "Unencrypting it probably would have saved his life."

Tony beamed and threw up his hands. "Snuggleupagus, you've done it again!"

Ziva looked up. "_What_ did you say?"

"It's Snuffleupagus, Tony, and with you, it's more like Smuggleupagus. You did not solve this case. Ziva did," McGee said.

"By following my old-fashioned police instincts. Well done, Agent David, well done."

"Tony!" Abby came trotting into the squadroom and threw herself at Tony, who caught her pretty well. "You look so much better. Not that you don't always look good. Though some of your hairstyling choices have been a little questionable. You know what I mean."

"I do, and thank you, Abby, I'm almost as good as new. Director Vance, how nice to see you on a Saturday."

"How nice to see you almost on time, Agent DiNozzo. I understood from Dr. Mallard that you were near death's door."

"He's an ME. We're all near death's door to him."

"Care to share your miracle cure with the rest of us?"

"I was cured by soup."

"Couldn't have been that near to death's door after all. Good work on the Harris case," Vance said to no one in particular, and strolled away.

"Cured by soup?" McGee echoed. "Are you sure it wasn't Super Chicks Gone Wild?"

"It was soup," Tony said. "Made with a very special ingredient."

Ziva was getting a little uncomfortable.

"Did you take him the hot and sour soup?" Abby asked. "Because, Tony, I've told you, if it's from Wong's, the very special ingredient is just MSG. Which is not good for you at all."

"It was chicken soup. And the special ingredient begins with an L." His smile was angelic, but Ziva suspected there was a devil waiting to jump out at her.

"Leeks?" Abby asked. "Leeks are supposed to be great for colds and the throat. Leeks are genius."

"Not leeks," Tony said. "It was—lapsong."

"Lapsong? You mean lapsang souchong, the tea?"

"It is a family recipe," Ziva mumbled.

"Austrian recipe, isn't it?" Tony said sweetly. And Ziva knew she had been busted.

"It sounds kind of odd, but whatever works. I'm just glad you're better. Now if we could just cheer up McGee."

"I don't need cheering up, Abby."

"He worked so hard, couldn't unencrypt the file, and we solved the case without it."

"Thanks for reminding me, Abby."

"Tony, do you have any soup left?" Abby asked.

"It's all gone. It's one of my favorite things."

The grin he gave Ziva was such a mixture of wolfishness and sweetness that she couldn't help grinning back, until she realized what she was doing and ironed her face back into something like disapproval.

"If you're done talking about soup," Gibbs said, "someone had better get cracking on that report."

"I'll do it," Tony said.

"That must have been some soup if you're volunteering to do paperwork," McGee said.

"Oh, probie, you have no idea." Tony opened the file, turned on his computer, and even sang a little. "Somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something goooood."

"Tony," McGee said, "you hate that movie."

"Do I, McEbert?"

"You've said it a hundred times: The Sound of Music is the worst movie ever made."

"Perhaps I've reconsidered. Context is everything."

"DiNozzo," Gibbs said. "Rule 52."

"Not familiar with that one, boss."

"No singing in the squadroom."

"Bad rule, boss."

"Did I ask for an opinion?"

"No, but you've gone three days without one from me. Just thought you might be running low."

"I know where that expensive shirt is, DiNozzo."

"Not singing now, boss." But he was still grinning, and well hidden behind her computer screen, Ziva was, too. Even Gibbs looked a little less grim.


End file.
